


On Earth as it isn’t in Heaven

by trailingoff



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bodyswap, Dreams, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, Gardener Crowley (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 01:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21091277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailingoff/pseuds/trailingoff
Summary: The dream demon is digging into a patch of earth with a small copper trowel. He resembles Crowley at what Aziraphale privately believes is his most lovely: long red curls in a loose braid down his back, a black cotton skirt printed with crimson rosebuds, dark-brown leather sandals, and a plain white linen shirt that’s a few sizes too big—is that from Aziraphale’s own wardrobe a few centuries past? When Crowley turns around, Aziraphale is pleased to note the lack of sunglasses. Then he feels foolish, because his dream Crowleys have never hidden their eyes; they never want to hide themselves from him.Crowley drops the trowel and squints up at him, and Aziraphale worries that his subconscious mind has made the sun too bright. He’s trying to focus on dimming it when Crowley says, ‘Hello, angel. Didn’t expect you, though I suppose I should’ve. You must have been done in. Absolutely knackered.’ He half-smiles. ‘So, you’ve found my secret garden at last.’*Aziraphale wants to talk to the real Crowley, not a product of his subconscious mind—even though the dream is giving him everything he ever wanted. Isn’t it?





	On Earth as it isn’t in Heaven

That first night in the new world, Aziraphale falls asleep for the first time in centuries. He is halfway through a snifter of Armagnac when he has the urge to rest his eyes. At the Ritz earlier in the day, when he and Crowley toasted their success, he felt fresh as a daisy, but it seems recent events have taken an unexpectedly significant toll. He sets down the snifter on the side table, leans back in his armchair and allows himself to drift off.

He dreams that he’s standing in a garden beneath a mild blue sky. The garden isn’t Eden, and he doesn’t recognise it, but it seems familiar. He follows a thin gravel path around lush trees and beds of flowers, all of which are of the softest hues, pinks and creams and butter-yellows. Their scent is sweet and fresh, not overpowering, and golden bees buzz between them. A corridor of wisteria-laden arches leads to a miniature version of the Fontana delle Tartarughe, his favourite fountain in Rome. His subconscious mind has done a spiffing job, if he does say so himself. The plants are unblemished. He is admiring a particularly healthy specimen of blush damask rose, when he hears Crowley humming.

Oh dear. This is one of the reasons why he hasn’t slept in so long. Perhaps _the _reason. He had once slept rather a lot, enjoying it just as he does other harmless earthly pleasures, but the dreams of Crowley had become quite vivid and, eventually, made him quite desperate.

Still, he is too curious to resist this dream version of Crowley, and it has been such a long time since he last encountered one, and so much has changed. They’re on their own side now, aren’t they? No need to fear the judgement of Heaven and Hell any longer. No need to seek approval from the archangels. And no need to keep calm and carry on under the looming shadow of the End Times. That’s all been taken care of, hasn’t it? From now on, he and Crowley can do whatever they want. Aziraphale might, of course, not receive _precisely_ what he wants. Or he might—but it’s surely best not to press the matter, and to wait for Crowley’s cue. In the meantime, surely there can be no harm in interacting with a dream.

Aziraphale adjusts his collar and straightens his bow tie, then strides in the direction of the humming. It’s bebop, of course, and he can’t name the song, but he must have absorbed it from his journeys in the Bentley.

The dream demon is digging into a patch of earth with a small copper trowel. He resembles Crowley at what Aziraphale privately believes is his most lovely: long red curls in a loose braid down his back, a black cotton skirt printed with crimson rosebuds, dark-brown leather sandals, and a plain white linen shirt that’s a few sizes too big—is that from Aziraphale’s own wardrobe a few centuries past? When Crowley turns around, Aziraphale is pleased to note the lack of sunglasses. Then he feels foolish, because his dream Crowleys have never hidden their eyes; they never want to hide themselves from him.

Crowley drops the trowel and squints up at him, and Aziraphale worries that his subconscious mind has made the sun too bright. He’s trying to focus on dimming it when Crowley says, ‘Hello, angel. Didn’t expect you, though I suppose I should’ve. You must have been done in. Absolutely knackered.’ He half-smiles. ‘So, you’ve found my secret garden at last.’

How odd. Dream Crowleys were usually quick to sweep Aziraphale into their arms and shower him with kisses.

This one gets to his feet and dusts himself off, but he doesn’t move any closer. ‘I’ve been working here for a long time, you see. Getting it ready for you, just in case. And now you’re here. Well.’ He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a rush, and pinches his nose where his glasses would usually rest. Then he dips his head slightly, his voice dipping too. ‘I love you, Aziraphale.’ His eyes are earnest, bright, yellow as buttercups, and very brave. ‘But you know that already, don’t you, angel?’

‘Oh.’ This has never happened before. All those kisses, and everything else, but never a declaration of love. That had been too much, even when Aziraphale’s mind was at its most self-destructive. ‘I … I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—’

Those eyes dim, and flicker to the side. ‘Yeah, um, s’alright.’ A quirk of the lips. A shrug. ‘Still, felt good to say it, finally. Better out than in.’

‘Yes, quite, I’m sure,’ Aziraphale mumbles, dazed. He believes he has worked out what just happened: he can’t bring himself to speak the words from his own lips, but he can express them back to himself through this invented version of Crowley. What would his old friend Jung have thought of all this? ‘I wish that you were … well, it isn’t your fault.’

‘I know, angel. Let’s just forget it, yeah? Don’t have to mention it again.’ Crowley’s smile is brave and strained, a white flag of surrender.

Aziraphale longs to reassure him, to confess everything and take this figment of his imagination in his arms, but that would obviously lead to madness.

Crowley’s smile fades, and he turns to gesture along the path. ‘Why don’t I show you the cottage, eh? Bet you’ll like what I’ve done with the place.’

The cottage? Aziraphale feels discombobulated, until he remembers. Of course, it must be the small cottage in the South Downs he has owned since the sixteenth century. The humans would now refer to it as a historic Tudor home with period features, if it were to be restored and had wiring, plumbing and modern appliances installed. White walls, a thatched roof, low ceilings, exposed dark timber, small lattice windows, a vast chimney. It’s been … how many years? Nearly five centuries since that rainy night when he left Crowley asleep in the master bedroom.

Aziraphale planned never to return, but he has always expected the cottage to continue existing in a reasonable state of repair. He believes it must not be overridden by vermin, or totally collapsed, or inhabited by squatters, or irreparably damaged in any way. Some buried part of him, Aziraphale supposes, always thought that perhaps, one day, his old wishes for the cottage and its sprawling garden might come true. And it seems they have, within this dream, which isn’t so spiffing after all. He’s really done himself in this time, hasn’t he? This vision of loveliness has been boiling him gradually like a frog.

He pulls a starched handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes his brow as he follows Crowley along the path, through a glade of elms, past a brook babbling between apple trees, round a corner and through a gate in an ivy-blanketed stone wall, into a herb garden. The gloriously comforting scents of lavender, rosemary, sage and thyme help to mitigate the sick ache in Aziraphale’s chest.

There it stands before him, his most shameful impulse purchase since humans invented currency, the great white elephant of his cottage. It is ostensibly meek and mild, with peach briar roses climbing along one side, and window boxes overflowing with blue geraniums, but the sight of it pains him. He should never have bought it, he has always known that, but now it’s glaringly apparent. For nearly half a millennium, in this pathetic part of his mind, he has been tending to it—no, worse, he has created a Crowley to tend to it for him.

The simulacrum is fidgeting with the end of his plait, and even though he is merely made of dream-stuff, lighter than candy floss, his body seems solid and taut with tension. ‘D’you like it?’ he asks softly.

There’s no need to be honest with a dream, just as it is pointless to make any effort to conceal dishonesty. ‘Yes, of course, my dear, you’ve done an excellent job. Top-notch.’

‘Ah.’ The hurt in Crowley’s voice stings and aches like a venom-swollen bite, and Aziraphale’s eyes burn, his self-control fracturing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, uselessly. ‘You’ve kept it in beautiful condition, and those window boxes are such a nifty improvement. It’s just, I haven’t seen it in so long, and I had almost managed to forget about it, and now it’s here, and I hadn’t expected—’

But he knows Crowley too well for his own good. The dream demon is nodding vigorously. ‘Nah, yeah, you’re right, it’s naff. I’ll start again tonight. Start from scratch. No trouble at all.’ Crowley can’t even manage a smile now, just a gentle wince. ‘I’ll redo the interior too. Stay out here, angel, enjoy the garden. Least I got that right, didn’t I?’

Aziraphale swallows. He nods. He really, really wants to wake up. Why does he have so little control in his own dream? There must be a psychological explanation for that one too. Poor Jung, what a shame he missed all of this, he could have written an entire volume on Aziraphale’s maladaptive fantasies, titled something like _The Subconscious Yearnings of a Deranged Ethereal Being: How Thwarted Eternal Love Warps the Psyche_.

Crowley saunters into the cottage, closing the heavy front door behind him, and Aziraphale sinks down onto a stone bench beside the rosemary bush. He aches to speak with the real Crowley. His plan to wait for the demon’s cue is in tatters. There is no escaping this: he will have to confess all, as soon as possible, as calmly and sensibly as he can. It is just incredibly difficult to know how to accomplish that; how to behave, how to speak, what to say. The foundations beneath his courage and fortitude have shifted so drastically in such a short time. His definition of cowardice has been upended, torn apart and refashioned. Intellectually—and, it seems, subconsciously—he knows that everything is different now. They are on their own side. He simply _must_ put his faith in the two of them.

But there is a blockage through the middle of his mind, like the thick layer of marzipan around a fruitcake, between the pristine white icing and the soft crumbly mess with its raisins, almonds and bittersweet candied citrus peel. A layer of marzipan that is heavy and cloying, one of humanity’s most atrocious culinary inventions, which Aziraphale has never managed to choke down politely without a minor miracle. He isn’t sure what to do about it.

At the very least, can he will himself awake? He closes his eyes and pictures the backroom of his bookshop. The armchair, the side table, the snifter of Armagnac. No, that isn’t doing it. He imagines inhabiting his corporation, its feet up on an ottoman, back slumped into the chair, neck bent at an awkward angle, hands clasped in his soft lap. He remembers how it felt to exchange his corporation with Crowley, to pour his appearance, voice and smell through the connection between them.

He opens his eyes to find himself in the bookshop. But how can he be sure this isn’t part of the dream? He pinches his arm—no, no, that’s one of those silly human superstitions. He gets to his feet, walks past his musty shelves to the front door, and opens it into the spring sunshine of Soho. A crowd of unique, bothersome, beautiful humans ebbs and flows, bizarre music blaring from their cars and shopfronts. The morning rush hour. He straightens his waistcoat and smiles benevolently at them all. Not that they pay him any mind, all far too entranced by their screens, as though the meaning of life resides in a global network of human knowledge dominated by pornography.

He’s back in the Almighty’s dream, then. Or, as most call it, reality.

*

Over the next three days, Aziraphale calls Crowley on the telephone each morning and night. The answerphone message has been switched to Crowley tunelessly singing, ‘Please don’t wake me, no, don’t shake me. Leave me where I am, I’m only sleeping.’ Aziraphale knows the song but can’t recall the name of the band—something involving a pun and an insect. Crowley has used the recording before, several times over the past sixty or so years. There is nothing to worry about. Crowley sleeps a lot, Aziraphale believes, mainly because he is a snake demon. There have been other reasons for these extended naps, dreadful reasons that don’t bear thinking about, but this time Crowley is simply exhausted—‘done in’, as the dream version put it. ‘Knackered.’ Crude English expressions that the real Crowley has used before, many times. No, there’s absolutely nothing for Aziraphale to fret over.

On the third day he travels through the telephone line into Crowley’s flat, just in case. Just to check in, make sure everything is tickety-boo. The first thing he does is peep into the bedroom at Crowley, who is curled up in snake form with his jet-black sheets. Such a relief. Aziraphale keeps watch for an hour or two, warmed and almost intoxicated by the pleasure of knowing that his demon is alive and well, safely tucked in bed.

Aziraphale mists the plants while praising them, as they are all so dear and eager for his affection, especially the crimson _Anthurium_. For obvious reasons, he adores red flowers with sharp points. He is particularly fond of the proteas, also called sugarbushes, native to southern Africa. In many varieties the outer petals are hard and firm, tipped with tiny claws in order to protect the inner layers, fluffy and soft as a gosling’s tail. He hasn’t seen one of those in quite some time. In the eighteenth century he had carried a king protea with him for decades, freshening it with frivolous miracles, until he forgot about it for a week or so—caught up in rescuing humans from a forgettable calamity—and then wept over its withered brown husk. It was too far gone, much like the Bentley had been that day at the airfield.

He thinks of the garden buried in his subconscious mind. Undeniably beautiful, but too sedate, too ordered. Prim and staid as his tartan, with nothing to balance it out. He doesn’t think he saw a single red flower, not even one in a bright pink, yellow or orange hue, nothing loud or eye-catching or brilliant. No spiky or spiny blooms either—no _Parodia nivosa_, no _Callistemon_, no thistles, no _Swainsona formosa_. Such a pity. Perhaps, now that Aziraphale no longer works for Heaven, he can eventually relax the layers of his mind, all the way down to the roots, so that at the barest minimum a sunflower can flourish in a corner of his garden.

As he leaves the flat, travelling by foot now—getting out of Crowley’s territory has always been much easier than getting in—Aziraphale can’t bring himself to cross the part of the floor from which, under Crowley’s supervision, he had removed that odious puddle of holy water and melted demon. He has to edge around it gingerly, his back nudging the doorjamb. He’s still quivering with nerves as he hurries along the corridor into the elevator. It seems that his harrowing of Hell has stirred up all the old fears, the worst ones, even though he and Crowley survived—no, better than that, they succeeded. Triumphed, even. They’re safe now. Admittedly, he doesn’t _feel _safe. But they are. Perfectly safe.

*

Two weeks later, Aziraphale falls asleep again, this time in a proper bed he has set up in the flat above the bookshop, having found space for it among stacks of dusty tomes that he can’t bear to donate to a museum. The mattress is made of a recent innovation called memory foam—which, the delivery man assured him, does not provoke recollections in a sleeper, but rather registers the shape and weight of a corporation.

Before falling asleep, Aziraphale cocoons himself in his cream flannel sheets and feather pillows, drinks a hot cocoa from the winged mug that Crowley gave him, and reads half of a Georgette Heyer novel, _Devil’s Cub_, looking at a hard copy even though he memorised it years ago.

He’s ashamed by the extent to which he misses Crowley. They have spent much longer periods apart, often at Aziraphale’s instigation. But now he can’t bear to go another night without speaking to a melancholy dream version of his demon. He just can’t stop thinking about Crowley. Every day this week he has visited the Mayfair flat, and he can sense that the plants are fed up with him; they would be scoffing at his endearments if they could. He suspects that Crowley has brainwashed them into a masochistic love for a stern hand.

After cleaning his mug and setting it on a stack of books, Aziraphale enters the dream where he left off, that stone bench beside the rosemary bush. The sky is still a mild cloudless blue. The garden is untouched. But the cottage is altered, without window boxes or briar rose, and with its walls a starker white, its exposed beams a darker brown. Aziraphale appreciates the contrast but misses the flourishes.

‘Just like it was when you bought it, angel,’ says the imposter, who is standing beside Aziraphale, leaning against the stone wall in that familiar boneless way.

‘Thank you, dear boy. That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Aziraphale tries to sound genuine this time. He feels dreadfully guilty for hurting his dream’s feelings and adding to its workload, and also deeply ashamed of this nonsense, so perhaps the easiest way forward is to behave as though this Crowley is real. Aziraphale entered the dream to visit the pseudo-demon, after all; he may as well go along with his own subconscious impulses.

In response, Crowley just gives a sharp nod and mutters, ‘Don’t fuss, wasn’t any trouble.’ He fidgets with his sunglasses, pushing them further up his nose.

His _sunglasses_? Aziraphale does a double take, his mouth dropping open slightly. Yes, indeed, Crowley is wearing sunglasses in Aziraphale’s dream! The sheer nerve. The cheek. Never has one of his imaginary Crowleys behaved in such a fashion.

Aziraphale is about to deliver a thorough scolding when he recalls how fruitless this would be. Clearly he is punishing himself. Yes, this rings true. He behaved awfully to Crowley. He said some terrible things. He would like to have the opportunity to explain himself, but his explanations might come across as a litany of weak excuses. This might be because he only _has_ weak excuses. He may have mistaken cowardice for courage.

‘Want to see inside, then?’ Crowley asks with studied nonchalance.

Aziraphale nods and follows him into the open-plan room that takes up the ground floor. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in through the lattice windows. The furniture is mostly unchanged: the original rough timber dining table with mismatched benches; the plush sitting-room couches and cushions that Aziraphale arranged; and, in a corner beneath a window, the spindly writing desk where he once toiled overnight, beeswax candles blazing on every available surface, rain pelting down outside. He stifles a gasp at the sight.

‘All right, angel?’ Crowley asks, a sunbeam catching in his glossy red hair.

Aziraphale nods hurriedly. ‘The bookshelves are lovely,’ he says, meaning it. They’re the only noticeable addition, taking up most of the wall space, although not too close to the wide hearth. His eyesight is strong enough that he can immediately see they are laden with his favourites, alphabetised by author, and divided into fiction and non-fiction.

It’s all quite lovely. But something is wrong. He can’t put his finger on it yet.

They climb up the cramped timber staircase, Crowley first, with Aziraphale unable—as per usual—to keep his eyes from the demon’s impossible hips. Confound him. 

When they step into the master bedroom, the problem becomes clear. Crowley has redecorated in here. The tartan bedspread, the cream-and-gold blanket folded on a stool, the curtains printed with forget-me-nots, the candles in golden holders, the framed embroidery of white roses, and more bookshelves sagging under antique tomes—it’s all Aziraphale. There is no touch of Crowley here, not a skerrick. Like the garden, the cottage is entirely Aziraphale’s.

That wasn’t his desire, when he bought the place. He was foolish enough, caught in a moment of weakness, perhaps of madness, to imagine that they might dwell here together from time to time. That they might ward the cottage against Heaven and Hell. That somehow, this could be a haven for them. That it might be worth taking the risk to have _their _cottage, not merely his. How cruel of his mind, to pervert his vision like this.

‘You hate it,’ says Crowley with bleak certainty, when Aziraphale’s shoulders form a rigid line and he can’t find the strength to speak.

‘N-no,’ he manages finally. ‘It’s just …’ He struggles to locate an excuse. Fails. ‘Oh, blast it! This is just a dream! A ridiculous dream!’

Crowley shrinks from him. ‘Yeah, sure. Yeah. I know, I got carried away. Get carried away sometimes, me. Alright? I _know_. You don’t have to shout. I know I’m ridiculous.’

‘You—_you_—’ Aziraphale splutters, glaring at him. ‘This isn’t about _you_.’

Damn it, what would Jung have said? He’d have been furiously scribbling down notes about Aziraphale’s folly, all while stroking his wretched little moustache. Well, damn him too. Aziraphale has had it with the subconscious mind. They are no longer on cordial terms. If he never sleeps again, it will be much too soon.

Crowley sits on the edge of the bed and puts his face in his hands. ‘Go, then,’ he says, voice cracking, ‘if it disgusts you this much. I don’t, don’t know _how_, don’t understand—I thought—but it must have just been—oh _fuck_. _Fuck_. Just get out. Just leave. I _can’t_.’

‘Very well.’ As Aziraphale prepares to return to his corporation, he fires a parting shot at his traitorous brain. ‘I’m going to live in the _real_ cottage. I don’t need this place.’ He doesn’t add that he hopes to bring the real Crowley with him. He’s always been a trifle superstitious, and it would be bad luck to speak his dearest wish out loud.

*

His luck is terrible anyway. After he has pulled himself together, he dresses to the nines, dabs on some cologne and hops down the telephone line to the Mayfair flat, only to find that Crowley is gone. So are his plants. There’s a note on the desk, sleek black ink with sharp points: _Off to summer in Italy._

Aziraphale deflates and sinks into the throne chair, clutching the note. What to make of that? How to respond? A startling pain, a shortness of breath. He lingers there for a few hours. Picks up the phone, dials the number of Crowley’s intelligent portable computer device, then sets it back down. Does this several times. Soundly tells himself off. Drinks half the bottle of single-malt that Crowley always keeps in a drawer. Dozes, his head on his folded arms. Drinks the other half. Wakes on the ground with a splitting headache that he retains as a well-deserved punishment.

There’s nothing to be done. He’ll go to the cottage anyway, see what shape it’s in. Perhaps write Crowley a letter, once the wound has scabbed over.

At least now he doesn’t have to fear for Crowley’s safety quite as much as he used to, with a constant worry that gnawed and sometimes tore at him if he was ever at a loose end. Idle human hands might do the devil’s work, but his idle angelic hands merely clenched with anxiety over the fate of a demon. Aziraphale had made sure to occupy himself throughout the past five centuries. He read and collected every decent book, briefly—and disastrously—became a fashion aficionado, refreshed his sword-fighting skills, learned to crochet, joined a discreet gentlemen’s club, ran a business, danced the gavotte and taught himself simple magic tricks.

Now, finally, he can be alone with his thoughts in peace and tranquillity. As Crowley has often said, usually while tight as an owl, ‘You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.’

*

That night Aziraphale sleeps in the real master bedroom of the real cottage.

A black cab brought him here from London. The driver didn’t baulk at the distance but was concerned about the exorbitant fee—‘Are you sure, sir? _Absolutely _sure?’—so Aziraphale paid him enough to send all three of his children to university. Money is no object, especially now he can use so-called frivolous miracles as much as he pleases.

The cottage was hidden from the road by overgrown rhododendrons, blooming wildly in every colour on the spectrum—and magenta, which famously isn’t on the spectrum and cannot be perceived in its true form by human eyes. Beneath these trees was a tangle of weeds, shrubs, thorns and knee-high grasses, buzzing with insects of every variety, from the crawling black ones to the shimmering floaty ones. As he walked up to the cottage, the garden parted for him in a much lesser version of Moses’s experience with the Red Sea. He took deep breaths, cheered up considerably by the mixture of scents: floral, of course, but also loamy, with hints of sharp new greenness and of salt from the nearby ocean.

If only Crowley were here to enjoy it with him.

The cottage was just as he had imagined it would be: some minor holes in the thatched roof, lots of dust and cobwebs, a touch of rot. All easily repaired in an instant.

He boiled the cast-iron kettle over the hearth and poured himself a cup of Earl Grey with the leaves he brought everywhere with him, in case of emergency. He finished reading _Devil’s Cub_. Then he went up to the master bedroom.

Ah, this was much better. The four-poster bed was hung with the tapestry of red and white flowers that he had commissioned for this purpose. He expected that the mattress would now be memory foam, and when he’d finished his tea he sank down into it with a sigh of pleasure.

Now he’s resting his eyes, just for a moment. He’ll get up soon and pour more tea from the pot. Just a few more minutes. A light spring rain has started up. He imagines that Crowley is asleep next to him, breathing deep and even, his red curls spread out across the pillow.

Without meaning to, Aziraphale falls asleep and starts dreaming again. Drat it.

But this dream isn’t like the others. He is in a purely white space that smells astringent, almost as unpleasant as the smell of Heaven—yes, he can admit now that for the past century Heaven has stunk of a corporate office building, and it has always made his nose itch.

In front of him, the dream Crowley is either sitting on the ground or floating in the white void. His head is in his hands, just as it was when Aziraphale last saw him. But now he is dressed head to toe in black, and his hair is cropped short.

‘Crowley—’

‘It’s _gone_,’ he spits, getting to his feet and turning to Aziraphale, his face contorted with rage. ‘I hope you’re happy.’

‘I’m—’

‘Five hundred _sssodding _years, angel, I worked on it. Every last detail. Thought I could do something right. But _no_.’ His Adam’s apple bobs, his voice obsidian sharp. ‘Nothing is ever good enough for you either.’

‘Now, wait a moment—’

‘What the _fuck _do you want from me?’

Aziraphale puts his hands on his hips and straightens his spine, glaring as hard as he possibly can. ‘_Excuse _me. This has gone quite far enough. I refuse to tolerate this behaviour any longer. For millennia I was talked down to and ridiculed by my colleagues, and I have moved past that. I will _not _accept the same treatment from a phantasm of my own devising. This is _my _dream, and I demand that you cease and desist at once.’

The pseudo-Crowley reels back, gasps, splutters some unintelligible noises, adjusts his glasses, and finally stutters out, ‘W-w-what? What d’you mean, angel?’

‘I won’t be undermined by my own subconscious mind,’ he says, filled with righteous determination, eyes surely blazing. ‘It’s high time I stood up for myself.’

Crowley is still gasping like a trout. ‘But, Aziraphale, this is _my _dream.’

For a moment, Aziraphale can’t process those words. He keeps staring at Crowley, and Crowley keeps staring at him. Finally he blinks a few times, gives a quick, strangled yelp of a laugh, and asks, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Exactly what I just said! This is my dream. I’ve been dreaming this same bloody dream every time I’ve been asleep for the past five hundred years or thereabouts.’ Crowley pauses, then starts shaking his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no. Oh, shit. What a cock-up.’

‘Crowley, what in Heaven’s name are you banging on about? I don’t understand.’

‘You’re in my head. You’re the one who came in here, must’ve found a way in.’

‘I certainly did not. I would never invade your mind.’ Aziraphale rubs his eyes. This might even have been too much for Jung; the poor man’s head would have exploded.

‘Really, _invade_? I laid out the bloody welcome mat. We even switched corporations.’

‘How is that relevant?’

‘Just obvious, innit? Look, I’ve never dreamed about you before, so when you popped up in my garden I knew it had to be the real you.’

What a blow. Aziraphale barely manages to suppress a wince.

‘But,’ the demon continues, ‘you don’t sleep. Got much more important things to do. Books to read. Dance cards to fill.’ Why does Crowley suddenly sound so resentful?

‘I _have _been known to sleep, thank you very much. Regularly, for quite a number of years. I stopped sometime in the … It might have been the early Middle Ages.’

‘Right, yeah, s’what I thought. So you fell asleep in the evening after we did our switcheroo, and you found yourself here, and you just thought, _What an odd dream_.’ He stops, his frown deepening, and scratches a hand through his hair. ‘Actually … that makes a lot of sense. I should’ve guessed. Bit stupid of me.’

This version of events is sounding more and more plausible. Aziraphale’s mind floods with recollections of his words and actions in their shared dream. Under the circumstances, the thought that the real Crowley did love him, sincerely and deeply, is a bitter consolation. ‘Oh, fuck,’ he mutters. ‘I broke your heart. I insulted all your hard work. I turned your dream into a nightmare.’

‘Did a top-notch job, too. Worst one I’ve ever had.’

Aziraphale gulps. ‘But … but you must understand, I had no idea. I thought you were just a construct. And so I behaved accordingly.’

‘Yeah, got that. Thanks for clearing that up. _In somnum veritas_, I suppose.’

How provoking! Aziraphale’s invisible feathers stand on end. ‘That’s balderdash! Why, if I remember correctly, _you _were the one who helped Will write Mercutio’s speech on the subject.’

‘Please spare me,’ Crowley says flatly.

Aziraphale clears his throat. ‘_I talk of dreams,__ / Which are the children of an idle brain, / Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, / Which is as thin of substance as the air / And more inconstant than the wind_—’

‘Give me a break, angel! You can’t act to save your life, and obviously you’ve never understood that bit. You should watch the Baz Luhrmann version. _He _got it. And you could learn a thing or two from Harold Perrineau.’

Aziraphale huffs and straightens his jacket. ‘I only meant … Oh, blast, I don’t know how to explain.’

Crowley waves a hand. ‘Forget it. You were crueller than you would’ve been otherwise. All makes sense now. Good to know.’

‘_No_, Crowley, it isn’t like that.’

An eyebrow arches above the dark lenses. ‘Oh? And how is it like?’

In all his thousands of years of existence, this is the most frustrating conversation in which Aziraphale has ever participated. He feels like giving a petulant stamp of his foot. How can he blurt out those three words now? How could their sincerity be adequately conveyed? But on the other hand, how can he do anything else?

Oh, he realises, he can! He can lay out his own welcome mat. If exchanging corporations eased his passage here, surely it works in the other direction.

‘I’ll _show_ you,’ he says. ‘“Show, don’t tell,” as the old writing advice goes.’

Crowley’s mouth twitches with interest. ‘So, you’ll take me into your dreams?’

Aziraphale tries to imagine how the demon would react to _that_. Discorporation doesn’t seem out of the question. ‘No, darling, a memory. That will be much more effective. But you’ll have to keep very quiet and pay close attention. Can I rely on you to do that?’

‘Ngk,’ says Crowley, ducking his head, but he nods.

*

The year is 1556, and they are standing in Aziraphale’s quarters within the Château de l’Empéri, a tenth-century castle that looms over the town of Salon-de-Provence. In a stately residence nearby, an astrologer named Michel de Nostradame lives with his wife, Anne Ponsarde, and their children. The year before, he published a volume entitled _Les Prophéties_, under the name Nostradamus. A freshly signed copy sits on Aziraphale’s desk. Other details of the room are somewhat hazy: white walls with a blurry gold and blue fleur-de-lis design around the edges, curtains with the same pattern, and dark wooden furniture.

In order to reside here, Aziraphale’s past self has disguised himself as a monk from nearby Avignon, and so he is clad in the traditional cassock, which looks scratchy and burdensome but feels as fine as silk. His corporation is slighter and shorter than the present-day version, fitting in with sixteenth-century Europeans.

This past self is sitting at the desk, penning a letter with a quill. At one elbow is Nostradamus’s book, and at the other is a pile of scrunched-up, ink-stained paper. He scrawls a few more lines of his current attempt, then thumps his fist on the desktop, pouts, and rips the paper into tiny pieces. He brushes them aside and begins anew.

_Why don’t you just miracle the ink away? _Crowley whispers.

_He can’t hear you_, says Aziraphale, at a normal volume. _And those would have been _very _frivolous miracles. I certainly didn’t want Gabriel showing up to chastise me while I was crafting missives to you._

_But you _never _wrote to me that century—not after I told you of Leo’s death._

_Oh, hush. You promised to keep quiet._

_Demon, remember?_

_Shall we head off, then? Have you had enough already?_

Crowley snorts then falls silent, and Aziraphale brings them closer to the desk so they can read over the past self’s shoulder. 

> Dear C,
> 
> I have accomplished my task in the south of France, and again I beseech you to join me at your earliest convenience. I trust that you can locate me at your leisure—unfortunately, I am still unable to reciprocate. I’m almost certain I know in which city you have been residing, and my letters always send a signal letting me know they have reached you, but that is all. Perhaps we can work together on developing my ability.
> 
> If you don’t have the opportunity to join me here before I depart in a few days, come to me in the small abode I recently purchased on the southern coast of England. It is merely a quaint farmhouse that you are certain to scorn, and I know you will be terribly bored there, but it is as safe a home as I have come across in all of Europe. We could ward it thoroughly and use it as a regular meeting place, if you are amenable to that. I would be delighted if you would—

But here the writer cuts himself off and wrathfully tears into the paper.

_What’s the problem? _Crowley hisses._ I would have come to you at once._

_You must understand, I was dreadfully afraid of scaring you off. I’d been writing to you for months, you see, and my first letters had been rather … effusive. And I had begun to worry that you were avoiding me—that you had laughed at them._

_Well, I never saw any of them! You must’ve been miracling them to the wrong address._

_Quiet, my dear._

There’s a knock at the door, and past Aziraphale hastily vanishes the rubbish.

_No frivolous miracles, eh?_

_Quiet!_

The doorknocking has grown increasingly frantic.

‘Come in!’ calls his past self, pasting on a smile.

A young acolyte enters the room: a lanky freckle-faced youth with pimples, crooked front teeth and a slight overbite. He’s dressed in a plain brown robe; this might not be historically accurate, but Aziraphale is doing his best, and Crowley doesn’t nit-pick.

‘Brother Azerafel,’ the youth says breathlessly, ‘I have slain a demon.’

Past Aziraphale pauses. He frowns. His brow furrows. ‘You’ve done what, child?’

‘In an empty cell in the dungeons—I did it! I summoned a demon, and I slew it with holy water. You gave such a rousing speech to the congregation last Sunday, on the constant battle between Heaven and Hell, and the power of sanctified objects to vanquish demons, and the particular purity and effectiveness of holy water, that I was inspired to try it myself. I spent the past few days researching, then I gathered the materials and—’

Aziraphale’s face has gone paler than the paper on his desk. ‘_Which _demon?’

The youth looks taken aback and scratches his chin. ‘Er, well, it didn’t give me its name. Didn’t have time, I just splashed on the holy water, and—’

‘What did it look like?’

‘Oh! Just as I expected. Dressed all in black, with a hood.’ The youth swallows and tugs at the neck of his robe. ‘A disturbingly seductive form, brother. If I hadn’t known what it was, I would have thought it beautiful. The befouled thing even _smiled_.’

With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, the youth freezes, and the room is plunged into total silence.

_You stopped _time_? _Crowley asks.

_Only within the castle! And I made it so no one would enter. I also made it impossible for anyone to summon you from then on, something I should have done millennia earlier._

_But, angel, _everyone _knows you can’t summon a demon. Not even the pope can do it, let alone that callow lad. Hell always sends a black-cloaked figure with a corporation to suit the summoner’s sexual preferences. Most of the time, they’re programmed to go boom! Hellfire everywhere. Good thing that pillock was quick with the holy water._

_No, _not _everyone knows that, Crowley. _I _unfortunately didn’t. A certain demon of my acquaintance hadn’t let me in on the joke until now. Anyway, do shut up._

Aziraphale’s past self gets to his feet, his face stoic and wan. He walks out of the room and down the corridor, passing blurry human shapes, still as statues. Sunshine pours in through the window slits. He doesn’t stumble as he strides down a winding stone staircase to the windowless dungeons; he illuminates everything in his path as though by electricity.

The dungeons reek of human excrement and misery. He hastens to locate the empty cell. Inside is nothing but a rank brown puddle in the centre of an elaborate chalk circle.

He walks to the edge of the circle. He stares at the puddle. As he stares, he drops to his knees. He bows his head. He says, very softly, very stubbornly, ‘No.’

_Oh, angel_, Crowley breathes.

Aziraphale reaches out to press an index finger into the puddle, with the same reverence as a priest delivering holy communion.

His whole body relaxes. He wipes his hand on his cassock and slumps face-first onto the cold stone floor. He doesn’t speak. For a few minutes he lies there, perfectly still. Then he stands up and strides out of the room.

_I returned to my quarters, _says Aziraphale. _I unfroze the castle. I made my excuses and set off on horseback for Florence._

_And what if that smear on the floor had been me?_

What a puzzling question—Crowley must already know the answer. Aziraphale speaks it anyway. _I would have remained in that room with you_, he says. _I would have released the mortals, from the humans down to the fleas. Henceforth, Château de l’Empéri would have remained frozen for nearly five hundred years. Until Armageddon, of course._

*

They are suddenly in Florence, standing outside the door to a fashionable inner-city townhouse. Aziraphale’s past self is now dressed as a wealthy merchant in a leather jerkin over a velvet doublet embroidered with emerald thread, above silver-threaded pale hose. Atop his curls sits a dark-green bonnet boasting a jaunty white feather. The outfit is completed with golden aiguillettes.

_Gorgeous_, Crowley mutters. _Wish I’d had the opportunity to see you like this back then._

Aziraphale’s ethereal presence seems to heat up, as though he can blush in this state. _I had to blend in. It took me a few weeks to find you, and I hadn’t visited Florence in fifty years, so I needed to seem as powerful and fashionable as possible._

Crowley chuckles. _Admit it, the Renaissance was when you became a style maven. From then until the nineteenth century. Those ankles! I suspected you were trying to drive me mad—especially when I rescued you from the Bastille._

Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley had noticed. _Hush, now. This is important._

They watch Aziraphale’s past self cast over-dramatic furtive glances up and down the empty street before opening the door to the townhouse. He steps into the gloom, then spends a few minutes waving his hands in a complex pattern—Crowley has set a booby-trap that would have discorporated the angel if not for their agreed-upon loopholes.

The air in the townhouse is putrid, as the entire residence is cluttered with dead plants. But Aziraphale doesn’t pay them any heed. He illuminates his way as he hurries up the stairs, his shoes clacking on the marble. He bursts straight into the master bedroom.

Crowley is laid out on the bed like a corpse at a wake, garbed in a black velvet gown woven with a crisscross pattern of pearls and rubies. The fabric contrasts starkly with his porcelain skin. His hair is arranged in tight curls threaded with onyx. His breath is fast and shallow. Beside him lies an empty crystal vial and a stack of unopened letters.

No other details of the room are visible, because Aziraphale doesn’t recall them.

His past self hastens to approach the bed. But when he reaches it, he stops abruptly. He doesn’t bend to touch Crowley, only stares down at him. It might appear as though he is glaring in divine judgement at the demon, but that is as far from the truth as can be. His hands are clenched to keep from touching.

_You must have been revolted_, says Crowley. _That’s alright, I am too. Opium, of all things. I know what it must’ve looked like, but I swear, angel, I’d been meaning to go out one evening on an errand for Hell, and I’d taken a little bit more than usual—just to get me through—and I s’pose I overdosed._

Aziraphale swallows his exasperation with Crowley’s self-loathing and just says, as gently as possible, _You had been going through a difficult time. I understood instantly. We all have our moments._

_Come on, it wasn’t a spot of melancholia. I’d been a good-for-nothing wastrel for decades._

_I wouldn’t put it in those words, but yes, at your bedside it became clear to me that you were suffering from depression. Perhaps it had begun with your grief over Leo’s death._

At that, they fall silent. Perhaps they are both reflecting on the pleasant time they spent with Leonardo da Vinci in Florence, back in the summer of 1503. He had sketched their portraits only a few days before Aziraphale was unexpectedly called away on Heavenly business. The pallid Crowley on the bed is a far cry from the flush-faced, wine-drunk one who had, dressed only in a nightgown, taken Aziraphale by the hand to go stargazing at midnight in the Florentine countryside. But both Crowleys are beautiful to him. All of the Crowleys, real and imagined, are beautiful to him. Often exasperating, occasionally rage-inducing, but never revolting.

His past self manages not to touch the Crowley who lies vulnerable before him. With a few quick miracles, he switches the heavy gown for layers of fine linen and wool, lets down the hair, and deposits the corporation into a large wooden trunk—lined with silken pillows and furs, of course.

_Always wondered how you managed it_, says Crowley with a laugh. _Didn’t think you had the nerve to stuff me in a box!_

_I left air holes_, Aziraphale mutters, before transporting them to the next part of the memory.

*

In the master bedroom of the cottage, Aziraphale’s past self vanishes the lid of the trunk, stares at Crowley’s sleeping face and whispers, ‘Oh, my poor dear.’ He reaches down as though he might cup the demon’s cheek, but then he withdraws his hand and gets to his feet.

Soon Crowley is in the four-poster bed, tucked up in furs and blankets beneath the tapestry. Past Aziraphale sits beside him, gazing at his face. It’s very much like a scene from those popular human folktales ‘Snow White’ and ‘Sleeping Beauty’, with their odd whiff of necrophiliac desire—except in his role as Prince Charming, Aziraphale has far too much respect for Crowley’s bodily autonomy to attempt the kiss of life.

_Well, this is a laugh, _says Crowley._ We look like we’re stuck in Edgar Allan Poe’s wank fodder. Why didn’t you poke me with a miracle to wake me up?_

_Will you _please_ be quiet?_

Crowley cackles, but hushes when past Aziraphale gets up off the bed and walks out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. Tears are glistening on his cheeks.

_Angel, you were—_

_Please. Just watch._

His past self walks downstairs with a slow, heavy tread. Rain has started to fall, a susurration against the thatched roof. With a click of his fingers, beeswax candles are burning all around the room. He sits at the writing desk and puts quill to paper.

> My dearest love,
> 
> I have been incredibly foolish. I imagined that we could dwell in this cottage and make it our own. After our time in Florence, I envisaged a future of such happy meetings, perhaps years spent together. But how could I have thought, even for an instant, that I could endanger you? If either side discovers our Arrangement, they will destroy you, perhaps right in front of my eyes. I cannot bear the thought of a universe bereft of you. Not only for my own sake, but also because everything in creation would be impoverished beyond measure without your bright presence, and because you deserve to thrive.
> 
> I realise that in setting this down in ink, I am committing blasphemy more openly than ever before. If the Almighty sees fit to cast me down to Hell, I hope that I might Fall into your arms. I would prefer to remain as I am, however, and for you to retain your essential nature as the nicest blackguard in existence. I have adored you in both your human and serpent forms. I do not know if you can or will ever return my love, or if you share my desire for physical intimacy between us, but whatever you feel and however you choose to be, I will love you until the end of time.
> 
> That is why I must never speak to you again. I hope you understand that I cannot go on knowing my selfishness might be your undoing. To keep you safe, I would do anything you can imagine, and I know you have a particularly vivid imagination. I would prostrate myself before Heaven, simper at Gabriel, and face all forms of humiliation in order to beg for your life. I would harrow Hell for you. I would slaughter innocents for you. I would gladly lie for you, even if that meant lying to you. And I now permanently end our acquaintance for your sake. I hope you can forgive me.

The writer signs his letter with a flourish: ‘Your Angel.’

He reads it over, smiles faintly, clutches his head and sighs, then reduces it to a fine grey powder.

_You absolute bastard_, Crowley whispers.

Aziraphale’s past self pulls a flagon of mead from somewhere, drains it in a few gulps, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and starts on a bottle of spiced rum. He gets up and paces the room as he drinks, his eyes dry now, his jaw set. He returns to his desk.

> Foul fiend,
> 
> I am disgusted by your behaviour. I cannot believe I allowed myself to be ensnared by your wiles to the extent that I held you in a small measure of esteem. But you have failed to draw me in, serpent, now that I have seen you overcome by the milk of poppies in your repulsive lair, and heard many tales of your wicked deeds in Florence.
> 
> I see clearly now that you are a low, crawling thing, and I have only brought you here to inform you of the permanent severance of our Arrangement. Begone from this place forthwith, or I shall drive you out. Let me disabuse you of the notion that I loathe you; in fact, you inspire no feelings in me whatsoever aside from pity. If you ever attempt to darken my door again, I will show no further mercy and smite you on sight.

He folds the missive and stamps his seal over it, gold-white wax with the image of a dove. He gives a firm nod. But tears drop from his eyes, and he reaches for another bottle of rum, and paces the room again, and weeps. For a moment he looks set to smash the bottle against the wall before he carefully sets it on the ground and passes out on a couch.

The memory skips ahead by a few hours. Past Aziraphale groans, clutching his head and rubbing his eyes. It’s still night-time, the rain heavy now. He brings the letter upstairs and tiptoes very slowly into the master bedroom. He sits on the bed again, clutching the letter, his eyes fixed on Crowley, and sits, and sits, unblinking, barely breathing.

In the depths of slumber, Crowley moans faintly and shifts onto his side, turning his head. A strand of hair escapes from the red mass and drifts across his eyes.

Aziraphale reaches out, compelled by both the force and weakness of his love, and tucks the strand behind Crowley’s ear, his fingertip brushing skin.

He snatches his hand away and shudders, the letter crumpling in his grip.

_I was too much of a coward_, murmurs Aziraphale. _Or was I too brave?_

Beside him, his Crowley is silent.

After breaking the wax seal and tearing a blank corner from the page, past Aziraphale jots down a few words: ‘When you’ve sobered up, come meet me in London.—A.’

He deposits the scrap of paper on the pillow beside Crowley’s head, disintegrates the poisoned letter, and remains by Crowley’s side, watching over him. He will stay there until Crowley begins to stir when the sun is high in the sky.

_Good thing you didn’t leave that second letter, angel._

_Yes, darling. I know that now._

_I wouldn’t have survived it._

_Neither would I._

*

Aziraphale wakes in that same bed beside Crowley, lying face to face under the red-and-white tapestry. Their eyes meet. Either they’re still dreaming or Crowley’s corporation has been brought here through their connection, akin to a journey through a telephone line.

Crowley yawns and blinks sleepily. ‘Pinch me, angel.’

‘That’s a silly human superstition.’

The curl of a wicked smile. ‘You’re as superstitious as they come.’

‘Very well.’ Aziraphale pinches his arm, and Crowley whines theatrically, clutching it.

His smile widens, his eyelashes flutter, and he says, ‘Kiss me, angel.’

Aziraphale complies without protest.

Hours later, Crowley gets up and flings open the curtains, while Aziraphale laughs from their bed and shields his eyes against the golden sunshine. Crowley pushes open the windows, and a breeze wafts in, bringing the scents of plants and earth and ocean.

‘It’s no Eden,’ he says, peering out. ‘And it’s nothing like my dream garden.’

Aziraphale sighs and slumps back onto the bed, his arm draped over his eyes. ‘No.’

‘It’s so much better, angel.’ Crowley’s voice shakes with joy in a way Aziraphale has never heard before. ‘I could work on it forever.’

Smiling again, Aziraphale gets up to join him at the window. Side by side, hand in hand, stark naked and unashamed, they gaze out at the weedy tangle of their garden, full of life and death, and all the lowest, crawling things, and all the brightest flowers.

*

Aziraphale and Crowley live together in their quaint Tudor cottage in the South Downs. It has been updated to twenty-first century standards while retaining its period features. Their garden is unmatched in the region.

They like their privacy, but over the years they make some friends in the local village, joining in with seasonal festivities. Crowley’s favourite is May Day, because he enjoys making floral crowns for the children, while Aziraphale prefers All Soul’s Day, because he is not-so-secretly an even bigger spooky fan than Crowley. After a decade of leisure they open a shop together, selling books and flowers and experiments with cake.

Just as Crowley doesn’t offer advice on Aziraphale’s book collection, Aziraphale refrains from interfering with the garden—aside from one comment, early on: ‘Make sure to include plenty of red flowers, dearest. The bright and the dark ones, and the sharp and the soft ones. For me?’ And so alongside the pinks and creams and butter-yellows, there are red dahlias, peonies, roses, asters, azaleas, tulips, poppies and many others, including flowers that aren’t traditionally grown on the south coast of England.

Above the hearth they have hung Leo’s portraits, displayed right next to each other in one gilt frame. Whenever Aziraphale glances at them, he thinks of stargazing in a meadow on a summer night with the one he loves. He thinks of brushing a strand of red hair behind a pale ear. And he thinks of the first king protea bush he encountered in Africa, how he dropped to his knees at the sight, and how he can now walk out into their garden and stroke the hard red petals, run his fingers along their spikes, and caress the feather-soft centre.

You can’t always get what you want. But if you try, sometimes you just might find that you can.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my wife.
> 
> The title is an altered line from the [Lord’s Prayer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord%27s_Prayer).
> 
> [Canonically](https://fuckyeahgoodomens.tumblr.com/post/185478573214/i-would-like-to-point-out-that-neil-posted-this), Leonardo da Vinci and Crowley were good friends. [Sort of canonically](https://fuckyeahgoodomens.tumblr.com/post/187194659009/part-2-of-the-ineffable-edition-goodies-portraits), Leo sketched Crowley and Aziraphale in a similar style to his _Mona Lisa_ sketch, so perhaps circa 1503 in Florence. Leo died in France in 1519.
> 
> [Canonically](https://pratchettgeek.tumblr.com/post/184012718054/he-was-particularly-proud-of-his-books-of), Nostradamus signed a copy of his prophecies for Aziraphale, probably a first edition, but spelt his name ‘Azerafel’.
> 
> Neil Gaiman recently said that Aziraphale has memorised [‘several Georgette Heyer novels’](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/186799869601/a-small-thing-that-bugged-me-why-did-aziraphale). I’m grateful to the author of [this Twitter thread](https://twitter.com/michelleeb/status/1160499242059915265).
> 
> I used a line from [‘I’m Only Sleeping’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BT5j9OQ7Sh0) by The Beatles, from their 1966 album _Revolver_.
> 
> I used (and misused) a line from [‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv9sDn_2XkI) by The Rolling Stones, from their 1969 album _Let It Bleed_.
> 
> Edgar Allan Poe once wrote, [‘The death … of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.’](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Philosophy_of_Composition) Make of that what you will.
> 
> Aziraphale’s Florentine merchant outfit: I tried my best based on descriptions of men’s clothing in Renaissance portraits. Please let me know if this is your area of expertise and anything seems off to you. I’m more confident about Crowley’s gown, which looks a bit like [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Elizabeth.of.Valois.JPG).
> 
> Baz Luhrmann’s _Romeo + Juliet_ is one of my favourite films. [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8q8S0ScJ1w) is the brilliantly acted and directed scene in question. And [here](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/romeo_juliet/full.html) is the play in full.
> 
> The [Fontana delle Tartarughe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fontana_delle_Tartarughe). Check out the turtles!


End file.
